


a fox-eyed bride

by sixwings (drfeels)



Category: Inazuma Eleven GO
Genre: Folklore, Inari, Kitsune, M/M, Summer Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9338156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drfeels/pseuds/sixwings
Summary: In the heat of summer, Hyoudou has Minamisawa over to stay at his house in his small hometown in the mountains.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this for a very long time. A hot summer story for someone born in the cold of January. Happy Birthday.

The room at his grandmother’s house has never felt small, not until now at the height of summer with two sweat-slicked teenage boys packed into it. Minamisawa is rare and beautiful surrounded by all these mundane things Hyoudou has collected over the years, trophies and awards and magazines. A small TV that still runs on analog. Somewhere he knows he’s still got a box of melon-flavoured caramels hidden away, in one of the back drawers of his desk. His dresser looks clean from the outside, but he knows the inside is still a twisted mess of half-unfolded underwear.

Compared to all that, where he sits in the centre of the room, Minamisawa Atsushi looks like an exhibit under glass.

He blinks thin but long lashes over double-toned eyes and speaks from thin, shining lips, words clacking over pearl-like teeth and a tongue that is good with more than just sounds and speech.

“Hyoudou,” that tongue is saying, curling and rolling and unfolding and flexing.

His name, ah, his name, he’ll never tire of hearing it roll off that tongue.

“Minamisawa,” he finds himself answering, and it’s a moment before those shining eyes under Minamisawa’s lashes curve and squint and close with a laugh.

“Are you really that out of it? Did you even hear anything I said?”

“I, uh,” he finds himself spitting out as his cheeks heat and his anxiety overflows.

“What were you thinking about?” Minamisawa is on all fours, dragging himself closer across the tatami, eyes hungry and set on Hyoudou’s face, his chest, that spot between his legs that always grows hot when Minamisawa grows hungry. “Were you thinking about…having me in your room?”

“A little.”

“I’m thinking about it a lot.”

He’s very nearly in Hyoudou’s lap now, just an inch away when there’s a soft rap on the sliding door. It’s his grandmother, with tea. Minamisawa straightens himself, greets her warmly and thanks her again for allowing him to stay. There’s that soft glint in his eye as he glances over at Hyoudou over his cup.

 

* * *

After the tea and tea snacks he decides it’s probably time for them to take a walk, a cool-off, though he’d love to do nothing more than indulge that lust-hungry gaze. He ends up taking Minamisawa through the back forest, the only kind of place vaguely interesting to a city boy in a small mountain town.

When he was younger, he’d often come here, in the path behind the houses deep into the forest. The path is the same as he always remembers, well-worn into the dirt, neatly lined by slightly overgrown undergrowth that gets wilder the deeper you go. Deep deep behind there, under the emerald green of the trees, past the lush underbrush, there’s a clearing. He remembers it well as he leads Minamisawa to it. Once they’re deep enough along he allows himself to take Minamisawa’s hand, weave their fingers together here, as he leads him along to a place where nobody will see.

It’s a luxury he never has in the outside world.

Minamisawa does not question where they are going. When Hyoudou glances back his gaze is downcast, but there is a faint smile on his lips and a soft, glimmering fondness in those eyes tracing the forest floor.

It’s still there, year after year. A small, nameless wooden shrine in a clearing. It’s barely higher than his knee, made of old, worn wood that is faded and weathered but not rotting due to the protection of the trees overhead. The wood is overgrown with creeping mosses, ferns surrounding it from the base but not shrouding, as though they have veneration for it.

“I’d come here as a kid,” he finally says. His voice is a loud, rumbling storm in the eerily quiet stillness of the forest.

“Who’s shrine is it?”

“Dunno,” he says. “I asked my grandfather, once. He said it might just be from before the bigger Inari one up the mountain was built, so maybe for Inari? Either way,” he reaches into his pocket for what he’d grabbed from the refrigerator before they’d left, and places a salted salmon riceball at the base, “this is just in case.”

Minamisawa laughs, but the tone is woven through with a sense of endearment. “I suppose it can’t hurt.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“A what? Hokora?”

“No,” he says. “A kitsune.” And then, quickly, “Don’t laugh.”

“Wasn’t gonna. You’ve seen one?” Minamisawa bends his knees and crouches down so he’s level with Hyoudou in front of the shrine. “I don’t think it’s stupid or anything.”

“I’m glad.”

The feeling of relief is palpable, the way the tension diffuses in his chest. Minamisawa brushes some dead leaves away from the forest floor, gently touches his fingers to the stones stacked underneath the shrine. He touches them with reverence, with a gentle care. Those hot, quick fingers have turned delicate. He strokes the grain of the rock with the pad of his thumb.

“So you saw one?”

“When I was seven, just the tail, all white. My grandfather said it was a kitsune, probably. Before that I thought it was the neighbour’s dog.”

“Maybe it was watching you,” Minamisawa says softly to the stones beneath his fingers. “Maybe Inari likes your rice balls.”

“My grandmother’s rice balls,” he laughs.

Minamisawa doesn’t reply, just continues to run his fingers across the smooth stones. His eyes are fixated on the center of the shrine, watching. After a solid minute he stands up, brushes a bit of forest debris off the back of his pants. “We should head back, help her with dinner.”

He holds out his hand, and Hyoudou takes it. There’s something precious to a moment where that’s permissible. He grips that hand tight until they’re barely at the edge of the forest, until he can see his grandmother hanging laundry in the yard, until they’re back to their thinly veiled white lies.

From the fridge, Minamisawa eats the last salted salmon rice ball.

 

* * *

A few nights later they go out into the town for groceries. There’s nothing much to see here anyway, it’s always been a small place. Just houses, textile shop, shopping district with good, fresh silken tofu and the convenience store where all the local school kids tend to end up congregating. He was one of them once, back in elementary, but now they’re only vaguely familiar faces he sees during breaks, and only when he goes to town.

But this is the first time with Minamisawa, his first time slowly revealing to anyone in this place aside from his grandparents that he has a life on the outside.

Luckily everyone’s gone somewhere else today, maybe to the sea with the sun beating down like it is, frying everything into a wet, sopping mess. He’s already got stains on the edge of his t-shirt collar, sweat trailing down the back of his neck.

The air conditioning of the store as the doors open is sweet relief. He wants Pocari, he wants ice cream, he wants it all.

Minamisawa wants something else.

He’s got his subtly, his cleverness, but there is no way to subtly slip a box of condoms into their order without it becoming a problem. He forgot to check who the boy behind the counter is but he probably knows them, he always knows them. Minamisawa nudges him, murmurs, “Get out, I’ll do it,” with every intent of sparing him humiliation.

Merciful.

His eyes gleam as Hyoudou excuses himself from the aisle full of hair products and pays for their ice creams and drinks and the latest issue of Soccer Monthly. He heads out and unwraps his ice cream without bothering to wait, because the summer heat is going to liquify it in six seconds if he doesn’t start in on it now.

Minamisawa only takes thirty extra seconds.

He’s out, plastic bag in his hand, which he promptly drops into Hyoudou’s so nobody can see through the plastic to their secret. Heavy. He’s bought lotion, too. Also three umaibo, a packet of extra purse-size tissues, a bottle of barely tea, and the latest copy of Jump.

He doesn’t say whether any of those attempts at deflection worked. He doesn’t say anything at all.

But for the slightest moment, their hands brush as he drops everything into Hyoudou’s bag, and in that moment those fingers linger just a little too long on the back of his hand, stroking over the grain of his skin like the stones under the shrine.

He shivers.

Minamisawa smiles, gives him a wink. His eyes glimmer in the summer heat, the sun so bright his pupils have become just small dark points, his eyes crinkle up at the corners, shadowed by long lashes. Those pearl-white teeth glint.

Beautiful.

He swears he hears the chime of bells somewhere in his head.

 

* * *

They sleep in separate futons to keep up the illusion, but even when it’s so hot that he cracks open the sliding door that leads from his room to the back garden, when it’s so hot all his clothes stick and itch in places he hates, so hot it keeps him awake staring at the moon through that crack in the door to the garden, he still lets Minamisawa slink into his bed. It’s too hot to cuddle properly so Minamisawa just lays, head on Hyoudou’s chest, bobbing slowly to the rise and fall of his breaths. His fingers edge under the damp edge of Hyoudou’s sweat-soaked t-shirt.

Face half-shadowed by the moonlight his expression is unreadable, but Hyoudou knows what it says.

They’ll have to hang the futons outside tomorrow.

Minamisawa has the lotion under his pillow and he grabs it, sits himself on Hyoudou’s slick stomach and puts on a show in the near-darkness, just a shadowy tease. Hyoudou can only see the soft edges of things, fingers wet and shining. Minamisawa’s eyes are half-closed as his head lolls back and he opens himself, and then Hyoudou feels a tugging at his hand, a wetting of his fingers. Minamisawa’s ever-slick tongue is rolling across the pads of his fingertips the way it rolls around the words it speaks, and those pearl-white teeth graze and dig in and he feels the soft-worn point of Minamisawa’s canines against the yielding flesh that sits on his bones.

Minamisawa is watching as he brings Hyoudou’s fingers to himself, sits himself on them and pushes them up inside. Those eyes glint and reflect in the sliver of moonlight and blink wetly and he sees them, he sees those same pinpoint-black pupils large and black and something feral in the gold color that surrounds them. Minamisawa sighs that sound he always does with Hyoudou’s thick fingers inside his body, that sigh that’s a cross between relief and anticipation of what’s to come. Hyoudou curls them the way he knows how to now, the way Minamisawa likes it as his hips curl inward and he rocks himself. His hands splay across Hyoudou’s chest as he steadies himself and Hyoudou has never been more glad to be able to bare the weight.

Minamisawa bends to kiss him and brushes Hyoudou’s sweat-slick bangs out of his eyes. They kiss, Minamisawa’s thin lips slick against his own and his tongue slips its way into Hyoudou’s mouth and curves against his teeth and strokes the soft, hot walls of his cheeks, the underside of his tongue. It curls and scrapes against his teeth as Minamisawa pulls their mouths apart, takes Hyoudou’s hand and slowly pulls his fingers from inside him.

He slides his way down Hyoudou’s body and bites at the sweat-soaked curve where his boxer briefs meet the joint of his thigh. Then he brings them down, down and Hyoudou’s free to the night air, hot and wet and sweat-slick and the scent of sex begins to permeate the room.

Minamisawa takes him and plays him against his tongue like he’s reciting poems. Roll and flick and curl and unfolding. He lays it flat against the underside and licks up. His lips shine with salt and sweat and saliva. He sucks at the head, dips his tongue against the slit in a way that he knows, a way that makes a shiver shoot up Hyoudou’s spine and he aches and his hips arch up into Minamisawa’s awaiting grip, Minamisawa grounds him, pins him back to the mattress. He barely even notices the condom aside from the crinkling of the wrapper as it slides on under hot fingers.

And then before he can even flutter his lids shut and open again Minamisawa is pushing him inside, and he thought he could never be any hotter in his own skin than this night when his clothes stick to him, but he is aflame. Minamisawa is burning his bones. In his scorching, parching, aching he is granted one kiss, then another, then they begin endless and he loses count as Minamisawa rolls his hips and he finds himself raising his own hips to meet him. His hands find their way to the small curve of Minamisawa’s back and he digs in the pads of his fingers and grips him tight, holds him steady and thrusts upwards.

Minamisawa loses breath for a moment.

Hyoudou pulls out, sits himself up and rolls Minamisawa onto his own futon next to them, spreads him open and pushes himself back in. Minamisawa loves it this way, he always has, he wraps his legs around Hyoudou’s back as Hyoudou lifts him off the mattress and begins to have him deeply, completely. Minamisawa is breathing again, deeply and shuddering and then something high-pitched and soft, so much it barely makes a sound at all but his fingers come up and he digs his nails into Hyoudou’s back and Hyoudou feels it, the sensation of claws against his skin. He holds Minamisawa close and they kiss again and with his tongue he feels them, the soft-edged points of those canines like needles, and when he pulls back his body throws a shadow over Minamisawa’s face but those eyes still gleam with feral hunger and gold, deep rich gold that becomes bright and yellow and piercing in a way it shouldn’t in the darkness.

He ruts into him, ruts in a way he never has, as though the heat has come into his brain, the sun has bore a hole and the deep humidity has fogged over any thought he has, or has ever had. Minamisawa lets out something that is barely a breath with each thrust, his hands scrape harder and faster as though he is trying to find some sort of place to hold on. Hot, hot slick skin of his back where Minamisawa can’t find a hold and those fingers graze him more and more, deeper and deeper and there's a stinging that turns into a humming numbness. He’s almost afraid he might bleed to death but his heat-addled brain can’t find a way to grip onto that thought long enough to be concerned.

Minamisawa jerks more the deeper he pushes until finally Minamisawa’s already come all over his own stomach and Hyoudou’s fingers smear in it as he adjusts his grip on Minamisawa’s hips and finishes himself off in a few short thrusts while Minamisawa shivers and shakes as he rides out his afterglow, the oversensitivity of every nerve in his body.

“Hyoudou.”

That breathless, impatient voice breaks through. Round nails against his back, freshly trimmed, his name said over soft-edged teeth. Eyes that still gleam mischievously, but with a color he cannot discern in the darkness. He rubs a hand against his back. Thin, shallow scratches, but nothing that even feels like it breaks skin.

Minamisawa wipes the come off his stomach with a tissue, saves Hyoudou the trouble and pulls the condom off him and knots it and buries it in the wastebasket. Hyodou pushes himself off the futon, slips his shirt and boxers back on and pushes the door to the garden open wide to let in the night air.

Everything smells like him, like Minamisawa, like salt and sweat and sex. The room needs to breathe, and tomorrow they’ll have to hang the futons out before his grandmother gets anywhere near them. Their clothes, too, and the pillow covers.

The scent that lingers is too thick.

Minamisawa joins him at the edge of the door where he stands, watching the small bit of breeze that breaks the stagnant night air as it rustles the flowers. He pushes his damp bangs off his forehead and Minamisawa hands him a bottle of water, which he inhales gratefully.

“Ah.”

“Hm?”

“Thought I saw something. Probably a rabbit.”

“We get those a lot.”

Minamisawa stretches himself and sighs before he turns back to the futons and lays down. Hyoudou joins him, lays down on the futon that’s damp with sweat, the futon that smells like the two of them, together, deeply entangled.

He falls asleep in a dizzying, feverish daze from the heat, one that makes him question it all come morning. But at the crack of the sun, before his grandmother even wakes and begins to start up the rice cooker in the kitchen, he drags their futons out to the yard, hangs them so the scent will dissipate before anyone notices.

He brushes one of the bushes near the engawa in front of his room. His hand accidentally catches something soft. Hair.

No, fur. White fur.

He gazes back into the open door to his room, where Minamisawa is idly flipping through the pages of Soccer Monthly. His eyes flicker up and their gazes meet. He smiles with soft-edged pearl-like teeth, and flicks the page over with a neat, short-nailed finger. His eyes gleam.

In the distance, Hyoudou hears the chime of a bell.


End file.
